One Late Night At McDonald's
by LevitatingPiez
Summary: America has taken Britain out for something to eat, and a weird OOC Britain confesses. Short UsUk thingy, sequel to It's good to cry.


A flickering white light hummed above them in the silence. Well, almost silence, save for the loud, enthusiastic chewing of America, munching his food at a breakneck pace. The only other noise was the faint tune of rock music playing out of a set of headphones as an employee washed the floors of the restaurant. Though Arthur wouldn't call it a restaurant. It was McDonald's, for bloody hell's sake, and it was completely empty of customers except for two polar-opposite nations.

It had been roughly a month since the awkward encounter with Alfred and now the younger nation was taking them out to a 'meal' to try and forget any of the lingering awkwardness. Arthur guessed it was nice that America had paid, but he could've put in a little more effort towards his culinary choices… Britain stared with dull eyes at his fries, poking them hopelessly and trying not to vomit from the overwhelming stench of fast-food.

America looked up in surprise, cheeks puffed out like a chipmunk's. "Aren't choo gonna eat dat?" he asked, swallowing heavily as he eyed Arthur's food.

"No," the Brit muttered. "I suppose you can have it." He shoved his meal towards the other nation, eyes sliding away to focus on something else. Hm. That stain on the floor looked pretty interesting now.

"Alright! Thanks!" America laughed, polishing off his own share and starting on Britain's.

Suddenly, Arthur had the urge to ask the question that had been burning in his throat for years. He swallowed, barely managing to do so as he watched America eating. However disgusting it was, he needed to keep composed and put on a casual air for this.

"A-America…what do you think of me…?"

America's head shot up and he smiled wanly. "Uh…that you're kinda crazy? But, like…in a good way…and like you're kinda my, uh…mentor, I guess. 'Cause, like, you've never really been my dad or my bro. It's freakin' weird."

Britain winced at the word 'crazy' but he brightened at the next part. He took a deep breath. " Look, I know this is ridiculous, but, well, I suppose I just want to know. A-America, say, do you still like me, by any chance?" he blurted quickly, sighing internally once it was out of his mouth. It was such a relief-but scary too, and now he was in suspense.

If Britain wasn't mistaken, he was sure he could see the faintest hint of blush pinkening Alfred's cheeks as he reached somewhat clumsily for another fry. "Uhm, well…yeah, I do. You took care of me for, like, a long time. I wouldn't be…" He gestured vaguely towards himself. "…all this if you hadn't looked out for me. I guess I've been kinda selfish occasionally, but like…I'm really sorry for…"

America grinned sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck, visibly embarrassed. "Oh, fuck, what am I saying dude?" He gave a short laugh and went back to eating. "I sound all mushy! Gross!"

Britain's nails dug into the table, eyes practically tearing up. Bloody hell, America _did _still like him. Perhaps…perhaps it wasn't too late…maybe he'd feel better if he told the American about it. Maybe it would relieve some of the tension that kept his body wired; maybe it would even unlock a doorway to his life with the other country.

"Y'know it sounds, like, real dumb, but I kinda still look up to you," Alfred confessed, smiling down at the half-eaten cheeseburger he held. "Despite everything…the war, our issues…I still think you're cool. You're still…special to me, in, like, a weird way."

This was too much for Britain. He couldn't take it anymore. He'd admit it. The accent in America's voice drove him crazy, his childish manners made him laugh like an idiot, his eyes were so bright that they were practically blinding, and those fucking words-it snapped Arthur Kirkland like a twig.

Before he knew what he was doing, Britain had grabbed a fistful of the front of America's shirt and pulled him over the table, letting his lips meet with the other nation's with no regrets or second thoughts. He did it before America had time to draw a breath or cry out, and the young man was so utterly confused and, deep down, exhilarated, that all he could do was allow himself to melt into the kiss with a soft whimper.

Britain stroked the back of the country's head, smiling softly against America's lips as silky locks of hair slipped through his fingers. It felt like it had when the nation had been a child. Alfred had never changed, he probably never would. He was Britain's anchor. The one thing that he could rely on to always smell of cheeseburgers and fries, the one person he could count on to come bursting into a meeting late. America, America, America. He chanted the name in his head like it was one of his spells, relishing the noise it made.

Slowly, Britain pulled away and gave a half-smile to Alfred who was flushed bright red and was muttering countless 'dude''s and 'holy fuck''s. Arthur just ran a hand through his hair, and as the sign on the front door of the store flipped to 'closed' he whispered: "I love you too."


End file.
